Page 83 of Thorns from the Fall

Agnarr watches me fall.He runs to the railing and leans over it, moon haloing his grim face. My hair streams above me, and I feel like a leaf spinning loose from a branch to land on a still, autumn pond. The cool kiss of air on my skin feels nice, and I close my eyes. There’s a devastating loss of control that comes with falling. Time slows down, and during those few seconds of free fall, I try to loosen my limbs. Oddly enough, I know how this works. I’m a details bitch, and every method I considered using to kill myself with has been exhaustively researched. I know that tensing always makes injuries worse, so I do my best to breathe despite the air rushing past me. It all occurs in a matter of seconds, but it feels like lifetimes pass by after I’ve convinced my limbs to go limp.

The pain when I land is excruciating. I’m staring up at the obscured winter moon, and I take solace in the fact that I’m not dead. I’d laugh about the irony of that thought if I could feel my fucking legs. When I turn my head to the side, everything is black. I don’t know what the fuck is going on until a blond man with a long beard peers over the edge of the blackness. The clouds and moonlight give him an angelic haze and I worry it might be double vision.

If I’m paralyzed by my fall, I don’t have time for a head wound too.

“Holy shit. Somebody call 911!” he shouts, and I realize I’ve landed in the back of his pickup truck. I feel around me, noticing a dent in the bed in the shape of my body. Stupidly, I try to sit up, and when I can’t, it confirms my suspicions.

But I can breathe. My head and my arms move, so I’ve got some agency while I wait to heal. Taking stock of my wounds is somehow making everything hurt less, so I methodically continue assessing myself as the man fumbles around inside his truck—probably looking for a phone.

I brace myself on my elbows, attempting to sit up and look at my legs. A sharp gasp escapes me when I see them, and then all the pain seems to come crashing down upon me.

My legs are bent at unnatural angles, and I think I broke my pelvis.

“Stay with me,” the man says, leaning over the bed once more, and he’s holding a phone. I’m brought back to the moment.

“No, don’t call,” I say, but he ignores me. “Don’t,” I repeat, lacing my voice with command.

He stops what he’s doing, slowly putting his phone into his pocket. I look up at the top of the building where I just fell from, but I don’t see Agnarr anywhere. He’s probably on his way down to finish me off, not willing to follow my method of flight.

Ha.

I need my fucking ammo, but I won’t fucking dare lead him on a chase back to Hale.

“I need you to take me inside the parking garage of that building to our right. The one I fell from.” The man nods, and with robotic movements, climbs back into the cab of his truck.

I can feel my bones shift as my body starts to heal, and I cry out in pain. Since Emile was able to grow back his fucking hand,I had to bank on the fact I’d be able to regenerate—as long as I’m not hurt by silver. But I have no idea how long it will take. I don’t know if I need to run as much as I need to hide.

“Find the Chevelle,” I yell at the man, and I hope it’s actually parked in there somewhere. I don’t know where the fuck it went after Nico used it to kidnap my sister, but I have a spare magazine in a concealed compartment in the glove box, and it’s my best bet at self defense if hiding doesn’t work.

My driver goes over a speed bump, and I scream as my bones jostle. There’s a strange popping sensation in my shins that hurts like a bitch, and I try not to envision bone fragments growing back together or else I might puke.

I’m unable to avoid it though when I feel my bone slide back through ripped flesh and pop into place. Up on one elbow, I lean over to vomit, and it’s mostly bile since I haven’t eaten all day. I’m so fucking thirsty, but I can’t drink from the man driving me where I need to go.

I have to use him to save myself, and I’m sure Agnarr will likely kill him for it. But it’s the fucking trolley car problem. This man is helping me, and he probably has a family, and I’m going to have to let him die so I can bring an end to Agnarr. So I can eat the vampire’s heart and command every vampire of his line to not kill anyone and then no one will have to suffer as I have.

It should be Roman who does it, but beggars can’t be choosers when it comes to this.

Something in my pelvis knits back together and I have the sudden urge to pee. But there isn’t time for that. The pickup truck stops on what I think is the second level, and I hope to hell he’s found the Chevelle.

“What’s the license plate number?” I ask as soon as he opens the door. When he rattles off the familiar assortment of letters and numbers, I nearly cry in relief. I try to sit up again, and it’s so painful that I know I’m not ready.

“You’re going to have to drag me out,” I say, and he opens the tailgate.

“You sure about that?” he asks, and he’s in this strange state of doing things without commands but he’s clearly under my thrall.

“Actually, find the spare key first. Rear passenger side wheel well. Little magnetic box. Get the car unlocked and I’ll have you lay me down in the back.”

He does as he’s told, bringing a blanket that I’d left folded up in the backseat last winter. He lays it out on the bed of the truck, then grabs my shoulders and slides me onto it. He’s trying not to jostle me too much, and I appreciate it, but it’s far too slow.

“Just pick me up. Make it quick.”

I regret it the moment he jumps into the bed. His weight rocks the vehicle, and all of my nerve endings alight. Living hurts like a fucking bitch, but the alternative doesn’t interest me at the moment. I bite a hole in my lip trying not to scream.

Spitting blood, I hope my scent will distract Agnarr long enough for me to heal and escape.

For being a burly ass man with thick biceps, my savior struggles, and I think he’s going to drop me when he jumps down from the truck. His knees must be positively wrecked as he stumbles to my dad’s car and sets me down inside.

“The magazine from the glove box,” I say. “And the box of bullets.” I gently retrieve my gun from the front of my leggings where it’s managed to stay this entire time. When the stranger I’m dooming to a violent death returns with the magazine, I notice the tan line from a missing wedding ring. Divorced or widowed, I bet. I feel a bit better, but then I think about the fact he might have kids or siblings. There’s probably a fair amount of people who love him and will miss him. People I’m dooming to the same fraught nightmares I’ve had my entire life.

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